


Fly Me To The Moon.

by morwrach



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Broomstick flying, Credence embracing his witchy identity, Credence is besotted with Graves' masculinity, Devoted Percival Graves, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Magical wampus cat tattoo!, Post-Canon Fix-It, Setting: Moonlit autumn countryside, Tasseography
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 09:50:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12579064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morwrach/pseuds/morwrach
Summary: As the clock tolls 8pm on Samhain night, Graves sweeps Credence away to the moonlit fields of Wyoming for broomstick-riding lessons.(An alternate timeline from 'A Prowl of Wampuses' - if Credence had an apartment and a job, and that first kiss had taken a little longer to arrive... Can be read as standalone.)





	Fly Me To The Moon.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [canis_m](https://archiveofourown.org/users/canis_m/gifts).



> Written in response to canis_m's wonderful prompt (Treat No.18): _Graves takes Credence out of the city for broom-riding lessons. At night. Bonus points for: moonlit autumn countryside, haystacks, sly (or not so sly) dick jokes._

The candles are lit, the floors have been swept, dinner carefully cooked and just as carefully consumed, his feline familiar fed, his shirt collar ironed, and his hobnailed boots polished until they gleam from pointed toe to heel. All that’s left for Credence to do is to read for omens of the future in his tea leaves, and wait for Percival to call.  
  
  
Anticipation bubbles in the pit of his stomach, and questions careen giddily through his head. Will he be able to ride a broomstick at all? What if he falls off? What will being in the air be like? Like being in a high rise and peering out of the window? Is he wearing the right shoes? Should he have eaten less for dinner? What if he’s sick all over Percival?  
  
  
He calms himself by sitting at the kitchen table and doing his breathing exercises, concentrating on taking slow breaths in and steady breaths out. He cradles his bone-china teacup in his hands and focuses on studying the shapes therein. The sodden leaves curve around the inside of the cup like a flock of black birds against a clear sky, and gradually, the signs become clear. A few appear in his cup so frequently that he can divine their meaning instantly: a comet - favourable weather, an anchor - good and loyal friends, a pile of bones - misfortune surmounted with courage. A flaming torch sits next to the bones. Credence pauses to look it up in his reference book, and is delighted to find it described as “the discovery of an undeveloped talent.” He presses his fingertips to his involuntary smile, and concentrates once more on the portents before him. He is flipping through the dog-eared manual to divine the meaning of a smoking cigar when he’s interrupted by his landlady’s hoarse voice, drifting through the front door.  
  
  
“Credence!” Mrs Dorman’s hollers cheerily up the stairs, “Your Gentleman Caller is here!”  
  
  
He places his cup carefully down onto its saucer, body vibrating with the electric thrill he always feels when this particular visitor calls. Credence opens his front door quietly and peeps around it, listening to the rumble of Percival’s voice drifting up from the hallway below as his landlady makes conversation about “the Samhains of my youth in Pennsylvania.”  
  
  
Although he is a frequent visitor, Percival never arrives via the Floo network or apparates directly into Credence’s living room like Queenie or Tina or his friends from work. He suffers nobly through Mrs Dorman’s rambling stories and prying personal questions in the entrance hall, and gives Credence time. Time to quell nerves or rehearse words, and time for them to quietly reaffirm their bond of trust when Credence lets him through his stout front door, laced with wards and protection spells.  
  
  
At the sound of Percival’s familiar footfall on the staircase carpet, Credence fingercombs his fluffy fringe into a what he hopes is semblance of tidiness, and stands waiting in his doorway in his socked feet. He breaks into a smile as his visitor rounds the stairs, long coat flapping behind him, and finds an answering smile on Percival’s face, gaze focused on Credence in the doorway. A dark wood broom hangs over his shoulder on a strap, and a black wicker hamper bumps against his hip. Credence drinks in the sight of him– the broadness of his chest in a thick knit turtleneck sweater, the long lines of his legs in boxy jodhpurs, the tightness of the fabric around his calves, fastened with a row of little buttons, those tall polished boots. He resembles one of the many Leyendecker illustrations of sportsmen Credence has tacked to his wardrobe door, except infinitely more handsome. He swallows hard, before dragging his attention back to Percival’s face and the amused gleam in his dark eyes, behind round wire-framed glasses.  
  
  
“Good Evening,” Percival says, wry mirth in his voice.  
  
  
“Hello,” Credence replies softly. “Please come in.”  
  
  
He briefly wonders if they are going to fly straight out of the open window like Peter Pan and Wendy, before Percival brings an old coffee-stained copy of _The Wizard’s Voice_ out of his coat.  
  
  
“Portkey for 8pm,” he says, gesticulating with it and fluttering its pages.  
  
  
Credence checks his wristwatch, a glossy Rolex: a cherished 23rd birthday gift from Percival. Half-past the hour – just half an hour to wait!  
  
  
“Where are we going?” Credence asks, already buzzing with excitement.  
  
  
“Wyoming.” Percival answers, “There’s still a strict Broomstick Ban over New York State, and besides, we need plenty of space.”  
  
  
“I can’t wait to fly,” Credence confides, “Ever since I read about Shoshana Spellbody’s around-the-world flight it’s all I can think of, being up in the clouds!”  
  
  
Ms Spellbody, the famed aviatrix, had sent a very nice letter back in response to Credence’s awed fanmail. She had warmly reassured him about nerves, and provided him with some straightforward tips about flight techniques including the aerodynamic properties of large hats.  
  
  
“I haven’t been up on a broom for a while,” Percival says, “You may find me rather lacking as an instructor.”  
  
  
“I won’t!” Credence blurts out forcefully, without thinking. “I’m sure you’re a wonderful teacher.”  
  
  
He expects Percival to offer a retort, but he just smiles in that slow, fond way that he does, and Credence feels weak with love. He ducks his head, only to find Percival still gazing at him when he looks back.  
  
  
Embarrassed, he pushes a cup of coffee into Percival’s hands and guides him to the motheaten armchair by the fireplace, excusing himself to fetch his broomstick and outwear from his bedroom. The signed photograph of Shoshana Spellbody on his bedside table gives him a thumbs-up as he pulls his broomstick out from under his narrow bed and holds it reverently. It’s a _McTawny’s Chieftan 2_ , resplendent with polished dark wood and long rough bristles. Percival had offered to buy him a brand new _Cleansweep One_ , the first sporting broom of its kind, but Credence had gently pointed out that he had no need for a top of the range sporting broom, and that he wanted to buy his own broomstick. Something truly his, not secondhand or borrowed or bought by another, but earned in his job as a clerk at the offices of _The Witch’s Friend_ from hours of errand-chasing and meticulous typing and tea-fetching. Other witches and wizards his age working as clerks are keen to rise in the ranks, rankled by having a position which barely uses magic, but Credence is used to methodical work; and even after ten months, the magical world has not lost its shine.  
  
  
Whilst they wait for the minutes to tick by he recounts anecdotes from work, and delights in his ability to make Percival laugh. He loves to see that solemn face light up with mirth because of him, loves the way Percival’s chest heaves when he laughs, the way the lines next to his eyes crinkle, the way he will slap his thigh and wipe away tears when he finds something particularly hilarious. He's doing so now, as Credence describes his work friends’ Hallowe’en costumes. Margo still can’t decide whether to be a sugarplum fairy or an inadvisable sounding “sexy Dorcas Twelvetrees,” and Felix is dressing up as a vampire he claims to have once met in a bar in Minsk.  
  
  
“Any choice selections from _Dear Auntie Morrigan_ today?” Percival asks, as if keen to prolong his own state of amusement, a smile still playing across his lips.  
  
  
Credence smiles, casting his mind back to the letters he’d memorised with him in mind. “My overbearing mother-in-law has been eavesdropping through the floo network!’” he paraphrases, “and - I think my jealous sister has been sabotaging my beauty potions and now I look like I've got spattergroit before my big date!”  
  
  
Graves practically cackles.  
  
  
“Percival, don’t be cruel. Spattergroit is a serious illness,” he mock-chides. When did it become so easy to joke with this man whose very presence used to intimidate him?  
  
  
Credence’s cat meows as if in agreement, pawing insistently at his legs.  
  
  
“No, Flufkin,” he says fondly, unwinding his pet from where it’s winding affectionately around his ankles. “You can’t come with us.”  
  
  
He picks up the black fluffy bundle in his arms and carries it, protesting and wriggling, into his bedroom.  
  
  
“Now don’t look so sad,” he chides, prising Flufkin’s claws from his sweater and pressing a kiss to the cat’s head. “You’d hate to fly.”  
  
  
When he returns, he finds Percival standing ready to leave, and anxiously checks his watch. “Two minutes!” he exclaims, looking up to find his companion offering his arm. He takes it with a shy dip of the head, looping his arm around Graves’ own, before finding himself dragged closer with a firm tug.  
  
  
“Safer for travelling” Percival offers, somewhat unconvincingly.  
  
  
As the clock on the mantlepiece chimes the hour, they are swept away in a warm press of bodies and a clattering of broomstick handles. The candles flicker out, smoking softly in their wake.  
  
  
***  
  
  
The Portkey unceremoniously spits its passengers out into a moonlit field, tinged toad-green in the dimming evening light. Damp mist gathers ghost-like around their ankles, and cool, crisp air bites at their cheeks. The moon, sole watcher of their lessons, creamy and pitted as a water cracker, peeks out over the craggy tops of the mountains. Credence gasps softly, gazing around in wonder at the enormity of the white-topped range before craning his neck to look for stars in the wide canopy of sky.  
  
  
They set up camp at the base of one of the large haystacks. Graves divests himself of his coat and the wicker hamper, and strides with purpose into an empty section of field, broom in hand. Credence follows diligently, expression serious, determination in his posture and his footsteps.  
  
  
Graves clears his throat and begins, rolling up his sweater sleeves to the elbow as he talks.  
  
  
“Before we begin, forgive me if I explain things to you which you already know. In training aurors, I always find it best to assume a complete lack of knowledge.”  
  
  
Credence nods solemnly.  
  
  
“Too many accidents have occurred from trainee aurors pretending that they knew what they were doing. Half of them still don’t know,” grumbles Graves. He’s relieved to see a hint of a smile curling Credence’s lips. “Now, broom on the ground in front of you.”  
  
  
“Before attempting flight, you must earn the broom’s trust,” continues Graves, slipping easily into his role as instructor, and rather enjoying the sound of his own voice, “Place your palm out in front of you - ”  
  
  
“I’ve been practicing getting it to go UP at home,” announces Credence proudly. Graves suppresses a smirk.  
  
  
“Show me.”  
  
  
Credence furrows his brow a little, and there’s a little tremor in his long elegant fingers as he stretches his palm out, but his broom rides steadily into his hand at his unspoken command. A warm glow swells in Graves’ chest.  
  
  
“Very good,” he praises, reaching out and clapping Credence on the shoulder.  
  
  
“Now, ready to try getting onto it?” Graves asks, urging his own broom into a hover. It hangs in the air without so much as a wobble.  
  
  
“Yes. I’ve got my flying ointment right here…” Credence deadpans, pretending to search his pockets, “It was the fat of three unbaptised babies I needed, right?”  
  
  
Graves barks out a laugh at the inappropriate joke, which no doubt would have scandalised MACUSA (and frankly, most well-bred families in wizarding America). He looks over at Credence, who’s smiling irrepressibly. From his broad brimmed-hat and his cloak-coat to the pointed tips of his boots, Credence looks the very image of a warlock. The air of mystery suits him, Graves thinks, flatters his angular beauty and his perpetually inquisitive eyes. Credence has certainly bewitched him, no magic required.  
  
  
“We won’t be needing to grease any staffs tonight,” Graves says, winking “or anoint any ‘hairy places.’ Just hop on the broom and we’ll see how you balance.”  
  
  
Balancing, it turns out, is not a natural talent of Credence’s. It’s not that his broom disobeys, but more that he seems to overbalance and slide off one side, before putting his feet down on the ground to steady himself.  
  
  
“Your balance comes from your core,” Graves says, slapping Credence’s stomach with a broad palm. He doesn’t miss how Credence flushes under his touch, leans into it.  
  
  
“However, what your broom really needs is some foot rests. That solves the problem of where to put your feet. The new Cleansweeps all have them.” With a bit of wand work, Graves transfigures a curved metal foot bar out of some broom bristles. Credence hooks the heels of his boots over them and finds he is no longer sliding off.  
  
  
“Now, hold the handle with both hands, one in front of the other” Graves says firmly, “the top hand should be your dominant hand, your writing hand.”  
  
  
“Here,” he says, placing his hands over Credence’s ones, warm over cold, broad over slender and bony. He moulds Credence’s hands to the right pose, even though he knows full well that his student could have done it himself. “You want to hold it firmly but not too tight. A nice even pressure. There. Perfect.”  
  
  
Graves mounts his own broom and coaxes it up into flight so he hovers a few metres above Credence. The night air blows softly through his hair. “Care to join me?” he says, gazing down at Credence. He’s uneasily biting at his bottom lip.  
  
  
“How – how do I fly?” Credence asks, voice wobbling.  
  
  
“Take a deep breath for me.” Graves comforts, “You’ve already done the hard work Credence. You mastered communicating with your broom without any assistance from me.”  
  
  
Credence brightens a little, although his nerves are evident.  
  
  
“Okay, now tug the broom handle a little towards you and think about the command.”  
  
  
In a matter of seconds, the broomstick takes off upwards at a dash, halting abruptly when it comes level with Graves. Credence sways from side to side, looking slightly green. Graves pats his pockets and extricates a round tin, handing it to Credence across the expanse of empty air. There’s the barest touch of fingertips. _Dr Feverfew’s Air Sickness Remedy_ reads the tin’s lid, decorated with a moving picture of a broomstick rider performing loop-the-loop stunts with a happy grin on their face.  
  
  
“It’s entirely normal to get flight sickness,” Graves reassures Credence comfortingly, “I myself get bouts almost every time I fly. Give that a good suck and you’ll feel much better.”  
  
  
Graves tries not to watch Credence’s mouth working around the lozenge. Fortunately, normal colour soon returns to Credence’s face, and with it, renewed determination to fly.  
  
  
“Ms Spellbody says that the key to flying is the will to be bold,” he tells Graves, with the manner of someone who has memorised a statement. He manoeuvres his broom boldly forward with a decisive motion.  
  
  
“Go on then you wonder,” Graves encourages, “the whole sky is yours and the night is young. I’m here if you need me.”  
  
  
Broomsticks, much like wands and other articles made from enchanted woods, respond to the personality of the witch or wizard and are often reluctant to follow their orders. Many have to be cajoled, commanded, or otherwise tempted into flight, and even then many brooms give their owner a bumpy ride out of spite. Credence appears to be having no such trouble. Graves is pleased to observe that Credence’s broomstick is duly responding to all his verbal and non-verbal commands and is making no attempts to throw him off or to ricochet out into the open sky. Perhaps, Graves muses, the broom is just as charmed and sensitive to Credence’s goodness as most people his companion encounters, or perhaps it was aware of how much it was wanted.  
  
  
“Wooooo-hoooo!” Credence whoops, swerving in a haphazard arc past Graves. He takes his hands off the handle and lifts his arms victoriously into the air over his head with a beaming smile. His shirt and sweater, riding up in response, reveal a sliver of pale stomach, a silvery glint of stretchmarks. He’s breathless, flushed with the satisfaction of his achievement, and wholly beautiful. Graves feels such a swell of adoration that he’s a little choked up.  
  
  
He hangs in mid-air, watching as Credence soars upwards in a gentle climb, silhouetted against the dark blue of the sky and surrounded on all sides by stars. He turns in Graves’ direction, and waves energetically. The motion tips his wide-brimmed hat off his head, and it drifts lazily through the air to rest atop a haystack far below. The bonfire-scented breeze ruffles Credence’s hair like a fond touch.  
  
  
Graves reflects that he’s seen Credence smile more tonight than on any other occasion. He lifts his arm and waves back. The light is dwindling quickly now, but he can still see Credence’s face by the light of the moon. His gaze traces the curling tuft of hair in front of Credence’s ear, and caresses a path across one high cheekbone.  
  
  
***  
  
  
The smallest taste of flight is enough to make Credence’s blood sing with the promise of adventures. Far below his feet, the fields and farms of Wyoming look small, awash with warm oranges and buttery yellows and dark greens. The world stretching out below him is as picturesque as the landscape paintings he loves to gaze upon at The Metropolitan Museum, daydreaming of the vast undiscovered world beyond New York. He glides over a gloriously dilapidated barn with a humped back, and follows the trail of the pines, their tips like way-markers in the night. Percival flies a few metres away, seeming quite content to lean back on his broom and admire the mountains.  
  
  
A crow drifts past, free and easy on the breeze. Credence thinks of all those times he’d guiltily wished he was one of Ma’s hated witches, free to fly away from home, and here he is, flying free amongst the birds. He laughs, a joyful peal which he doesn’t have to hide or suppress. He takes his hands off the broomstick and lifts his arms perpendicular to his body like wings. The broom gives an alarming wobble, and he quickly grips it again before can sink any lower. His heels skim the top of the treeline.  
  
  
The crisp cold wind pulls at Credence’s coat as he clears the copse of trees. The trees fall away, and he finds himself above a large, placid lake shining bright like a silver dollar. Entranced, Credence drifts a little nearer to gaze at the reflection of the moon on its surface. He begins to feel an unsteady tremble in his limbs hanging so close to the gurgling water, and flies up and away in the direction of the field before Percival has to give him impromptu swimming lessons.  
  
  
Credence looks back over his shoulder as he glides in the direction of their haystack. Percival is hovering a few metres away, one hand lazily holding onto his broom in the aspect of a practiced flier. Percival’s wampus cat tattoo, a constant source of fascination, sits proud and upright on his dominant hand like the figurehead of a ship. A stray lock of his hair is playing in the breeze, and he’s gazing upwards at the stars, lips silently forming the names of the constellations. He looks carefree, at ease, soft – so unlike the Percival Graves Credence has been meeting for workday lunch or quiet evening dinners: buttoned up and formal, his expression weary, and his mood sombre. Percival catches his eye, and smiles warmly. The words of Credence’s friends come drifting into his head. _“Hallowe’en is the most romantic night of the wizarding calendar!”_ Margo had whispered into his ear. Ever her co-conspirator, Felix had advised knowledgeably that it was _“a good night for a first kiss!”  
  
  
_ “Time to stop for a rest, high flier?” Percival calls out between his cupped hands. Credence nods in response.  
  
  
Percival tilts his broomstick until it’s at a diagonal, and lands with consummate ease, alighting from the foot-rest as his ride hovers few inches above the ground. Credence lands clumsily a few metres away, his feet stumbling on the ground and breaking into a tumbling little run with the residual momentum. Percival stretches out and catches him by his upper arms, holding him steady. Credence smiles widely, beaming with happiness.  
  
  
“I did it!” he exclaims with breezy disbelief, “I flew!”  
  
  
“I never doubted that you would.” Percival replies. He grins warmly, crow’s feet crinkling, and Credence finds himself impulsively leaning in to press a soft uncertain kiss against his mouth – a tiny act of bravery for one who has conquered flight. He pulls back, eyes firmly clamped shut, and sucks in a little intake of breath, cold nose bumping against Percival’s.  
  
  
“Credence,” Percival’s voice coaxes.  
  
  
He opens his eyes to find Percival gazing at him with such open affection in his warm-dark eyes that it’s hard not to feel hopeful. He smiles, before weaving a hand into Credence’s raven-black hair and kissing him back. It isn’t the wet, passionate meeting of hot mouths he had imagined; Percival kisses thoroughly and carefully. He angles Credence’s head gently to press closer, undoing all Credence’s self-restraint with a caress of his lips.  
  
  
Percival takes him in his arms and holds him close, and Credence allows himself to wind his arms around him and relax into the warmth of his body. Sighing, he buries his face in Percival’s neck, nose brushing against his sweater.  
  
  
“I have wanted to do that for a long time,” Percival mumbles into Credence’s cold ear before pressing another kiss just below it.  
  
  
"Why didn't you kiss me sooner?" asks Credence, breathlessly.  
  
  
Percival huffs. "I was endeavouring to be a gentleman"  
  
  
Credence puts a gentle hand to Percival’s stubble-rough cheek. He traces that proud chin with his thumb, like he’d done so many times in his daydreams, and kisses him again.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Percival remains too gentlemanly to entice Credence into a roll in the hay, and insists on the importance of following exercise with refreshments. They climb up on top of the haystack, and sit comfortably with the help of some cushioning charms. Credence digs his heels into the hay, and summons a little ball of wandlight to hang in the air above them. Its glow illuminates Percival’s face, gazing at him in adoration once again. A little bubble of happy disbelief blossoms in Credence’s chest.  
  
  
Percival opens the unassuming wicker hamper to reveal a veritable feast - sandwiches wrapped in waxed brown paper are wedged alongside candied apples whilst bottles of pumpkin juice clink against a metal thermos. There are biscuits decorated like black cats with arched backs, biscuits in the shape of pumpkins with grinning smiles, and toads made from green chocolate. Nestled amid the feast is an ostentatiously large chocolate owl.  
  
  
Graves looks distinctly ill-at-ease, before saying in a flurry “I wasn’t sure what you liked…”  
  
  
He looks lost and rather vulnerable, all his normal suave surety gone, reduced to a man who just wants to please Credence. His wampus tattoo peeks its face inquisitively out of the rolled-up cuff of his jumper, sleek inked lines against the fine hair of his forearm.  
  
  
“I like everything - ” Credence says, laughing self-consciously before correcting himself. “I’d like to try everything.”  
  
  
“Start with this,” Percival replies, eyes twinkling as he hands Credence a domed marshmallow teacake wrapped in shiny foil packaging.  
  
  
He motions with one hand – and Credence bubbles with laughter as a white paper dove flies out of his sleeve like a no-maj stage magician. It lands elegantly in Credence’s lap and unfolds itself into a napkin. Percival’s eyes twinkle as he flattens his own napkin on his lap. They sit and eat companionably, taking sips of hot apple tea from thermos cups, and watching purple clouds drift past the craggy peaks of the mountains. Credence edges his hand closer to Graves’ where they rest atop the hay, and quietly links their little fingers together. Percival’s hand radiates warmth as he squeezes back in an unspoken answer. His eyes are gentle when Credence looks up to meet them, softened by happy recognition. Moonlight plays across his face, and Credence doesn’t look away.  
  
  
A little later, perhaps they’ll flout the broomstick ban and weave through New York’s jewelled skyline, and perhaps Credence will attempt daring and inadvisable broomstick stunts for a beginner; but for now there’s the smell of bonfires on the balmy breeze, and rising up from somewhere deep within Credence, the sense that he has begun the banishment of old and spiteful ghosts. Like a first fall of snow blanketing the ground, a conviction in the goodness of the world settles gently over his thoughts, summoned by some strange internal alchemy all of his own, more astonishing than any magic.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Samhain! :D
> 
> The omen Credence never got to decipher, the smoking cigar, means “a wealthy friend or lover will absorb all your thoughts.” The manual he's using is a real book – Telling Fortunes in Tea Leaves by Cicely Kent, published in 1922. If you fancy divining the future in your own tea, it’s on archive.org.
> 
> My inspiration for Credence's stretchmarks was burgundians' beautiful fic [till the siren come calling](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11562165/chapters/25973601)
> 
> [You can find me on tumblr @nettlekettle](http://nettlekettle.tumblr.com/) \- feel welcome to come chat to me! :)


End file.
